Of Lonely Roads and Midnight
by Highfunctioning Hufflepuff
Summary: Short introspective piece of Kurama/Hiei ust. Written to Patsy Cline's "Walking after Midnight".   Hiei's been gone a long time, and Kurama has waited long enough.  "And so tonight is the last night. For walking, for remembering, for all of this."
1. Lonely Roads Version 1

A/N: There are actually two versions to this fic. This is version1, and version2 can be found in the second chapter. Tell me which one you like best. (Whether or not there's a sequel hinges on which version is most popular)Thanks so much to Mika Starlight for being a wonderful beta! This thing has been a beast to write, and I'm very glad that it's over. Thanks also to Alex, as always, for her unending support and enthusiasm. -love-

_Midnight? No... Later. But only a little, and I don't mind. Time has no meaning. Not here. Not in this place. _

_ What am I saying? If there is a place it is merely a state of the mind, a condition that I have created for myself. After all, _here_ can be any place, any hour._

_ Any memory._

_ And tonight, 'here' is a moonlit road, dark and winding. The pavement glistening dully beneath my feet like fresh tears in dead eyes while I walk. _

_ The hour is late, or later. Whichever. Too late, anyway, to change things. Too late to be doing this. And, of course, the memory is _every_ memory. _

_ The memory is _you_._

_ What would you say, I wonder, if you knew? What harsh words would shoot like barbs from the tip of your tongue if you knew that I walk these roads nearly every night, searching? _

_ But for what?_

_ Perhaps I seek ghosts of you. Echoes of your presence, brought to life as I walk down these well-known, beloved paths and feel the cold at my side, reminding me of the warmth, your warmth, that once belonged there. Or perhaps I seek possibilities. Could-have-beens that are conjured by my loneliness while I traverse new paths and draw off old memories, wondering what it might be like to have you walk beside me once more. _

_ Or perhaps I simply wish to feel this. Simply wish to experience the hollow aching in my chest and the awful burning in my soul._

_ Oh, I can nearly see your face were I to voice these thoughts to you. You would scowl, and snap in the way that, secretly, always pleased me. You would demand to know what stupidity drives a fox to desire pain. It almost makes me smile. You and I are not so different in this, Beloved. _

_ The wind sighs and brings with it the scent of rain, breaking my reverie. There are clouds darkening the moon, the stars, leaving little to light my way. Still, I press on. I am a glutton for punishment this night, it would seem. But the air is humming around me, almost alive with a tense kind of sorrow. When I listen closely, I can hear more than the rustle of leaves and the stirring of grass. I can hear voices, thousands of tiny little cries, all of them bemoaning their loneliness. My heart is in each one. _

_ After all, every cry is for me._

_ One voice in particular draws my attention, stunning in its grief. I search a moment, reaching out with my energy to locate that singular sound; a willow, standing lonely in a barren field just to the right of the road. Its vine-like leaves snake quietly in the breeze, and my eye catches on minuscule, pearlescent beads of moisture; dew drops, like individual tears, sparkling along the leaves in the nearly nonexistent starlight. _

_ For just a moment, I pause to kneel and bury my hands in the grass. I extend my energy again and connect directly to the willow itself. _

_ It _is _crying. For me, and itself, and the fact that it cannot comfort me. _

_ I send it strength and gratitude through our link, and, as best as I am able, let it know that it has done just fine, before rising and continuing my walk once more. _

_ It cried, after all. And I haven't had tears of my own for a long while. _

_ My feet have found the highway now, and the soft crush of grass is replaced by the hard crunch of the road's shoulder. Despite the late hour a steady stream of traffic is flying by. The wind of their passage rips at the hem of my clothes and tears at the ends of my hair. _

_ For one so affiliated with nature, I find it shockingly easy to lose myself in this; in the combined scents of exhaust and metal and rubber, in the rhythmic roar of the cars as they rush past, ebbing and flowing like a man-made tide, threatening to drown me in its intensity. I let it all wash over me and breathe a sigh of weary familiarity. _

_ I almost expected to end up here tonight. _

_ After all, you hated this place. Hated the rush and the stink and the utter _humanity _of it all. You couldn't understand my love for such a barren thing, but you always came. Every time I asked you. Every time I didn't. I can still remember every moment of weakness that led me here, looking to be swept away, only to find you waiting. You always knew and you always came looking. You were something solid to ground me in a world that constantly shifts. _

_ But no more. You shifted, too, and nothing is solid now. _

_ Should I have been surprised? When the world looks at me they see mutability. Transience. A mercurial compulsion to change. In you they see constancy. Stone. Something immovable. It was these perceptions which damned us in the end. For what is my inconstancy but the culmination of a thousand years worth of wanting and learning and being? What is your intransigence but a hundred years worth of anger and fear and resentment? If your nature is that of a stone, then surely mine is that of that willow, able to breathe and bend and flex where you can only break. And when the stone has cracked and worn away, as stones are wont to do, what then?_

_ They say that you are the constant one. _

_ Tell me, how can that be true when I'm the one still here?_

_ Still walking. Still waiting. Still hoping against hope that I might find you, walking these same roads, looking for me. _

_ But it's late. Too late. The marks of time have wrought their ruins across this tired human body. And even if you were to come, even if you were to stand before me and apologize for your absence, I'm not certain that it would matter. Even the strongest memories are only worth so much, and I've been alone far too long. _

_ And so tonight is the last night. For walking, for remembering, for all of this. _

_ There will be no more waiting. _

_ The sky above me is dense with the blackness of predawn. The cars on the highway are still a pulsing hum at my side. And even though this is the last time, the ache deep within me will always call for these things. For the chill and the regret and everything that speaks of you. _

_ Some part of me will always be yours, I'm afraid. Lonely and aching and unclaimed, but yours all the same._

_ The pavement is glistening despite the darkness. The rain I scented earlier has started and tendrils of fog are rising, twining lovingly around my ankles in a comforting caress. _

_ It is time to end this. _

_ After all, I've said everything that there is to say._

"Goodbye, Hiei."

_And now there's nothing left to do but walk back the way I came. _


	2. Lonely Roads Version 2

A/N: This is version two. It is exactly the same as version one up until the line "_And even if you were to show up, even if you were to stand before me and apologize for your absence, I'm not certain that it would matter." _Like I said, let me know which one you like better. Whether or not there's a sequel depends on that feedback. (One version creates a sequel, the other doesn't)_  
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_Midnight? No... Later. But only a little, and I don't mind. Time has no meaning. Not here. Not in this place. _

_ What am I saying? If there is a place it is merely a state of the mind, a condition that I have created for myself. After all, _here_ can be any place, any hour._

_ Any memory._

_ And tonight, 'here' is a moonlit road, dark and winding. The pavement glistening dully beneath my feet like fresh tears in dead eyes while I walk. _

_ The hour is late, or later. Whichever. Too late, anyway, to change things. Too late to be doing this. And, of course, the memory is _every_ memory. _

_ The memory is you._

_ What would you say, I wonder, if you knew? What harsh words would shoot like barbs from the tip of your tongue if you knew that I walk these roads nearly every night, searching? _

_ But for what?_

_ Perhaps I seek ghosts of you. Echoes of your presence, brought to life as I walk down these well-known, beloved paths and feel the cold at my side, reminding me of the warmth, your warmth, that once belonged there. Or perhaps I seek possibilities. Could-have-beens that are conjured by my loneliness while I traverse new paths and draw off old memories, wondering what it might be like to have you walk beside me once more. _

_ Or perhaps I simply wish to feel this. Simply wish to experience the hollow aching in my chest and the awful burning in my soul._

_ Oh, I can nearly see your face were I to voice these thoughts to you. You would scowl, and snap in that way that, secretly, always pleased me. You would demand to know what stupidity drives a fox to desire pain. It almost makes me smile. You and I are not so different in this, Beloved. _

_ The wind sighs and brings with it the scent of rain, breaking my reverie. There are clouds, darkening the moon, the stars, leaving little to light my way. Still, I press on. I am a glutton for punishment this night, it would seem. But the air is humming around me, almost alive with a tense kind of sorrow. When I listen closely, I can hear more than the rustle of leaves and the stirring of grass. I can hear voices, thousands of tiny little cries, all of them bemoaning their loneliness. My heart is in each one. _

_ After all, every cry out there is for me._

_ One voice in particular draws my attention, stunning in its grief. I search a moment, reaching out with my energy to locate that singular sound. A willow, standing lonely in a barren field just to the right of the road. Its vine-like leaves snake quietly in the breeze, and my eye catches on minuscule, pearlescent beads of moisture. Dew drops, like individual tears, sparkling along the leaves in the nearly nonexistent starlight. _

_ For just a moment, I pause to kneel and bury my hands in the grass. I extend my energy again and connect directly to the willow itself. _

_ It _is _crying. For me, and itself, and the fact that it cannot comfort me. _

_ I send it strength and gratitude through our link, and, as best as I am able, let it know that it has done just fine, before rising and continuing my walk once more. _

_ It cried, after all. And I haven't had tears of my own for a long while. _

_ My feet have found the highway now, and the soft crush of grass is replaced by the hard crunch of the road's shoulder. Despite the late hour a steady stream of traffic is flying by. The wind of their passage rips at the hem of my clothes and tears at the ends of my hair. _

_ For one so affiliated with nature, I find it shockingly easy to lose myself in this; in the combined scents of exhaust and metal and rubber, in the rhythmic roar of the cars as they rush past, ebbing and flowing like a man-made tide, threatening to drown me in its intensity. I let it all wash over me and breathe a sigh of weary familiarity. _

_ I almost expected to end up here tonight. _

_ After all, you hated this place. Hated the rush and the stink and the utter _humanity _of it all. You couldn't understand my love for such a barren thing, but you always came. Every time I asked you. Every time I didn't. I can still remember every moment of weakness that led me here, looking to be swept away, only to find you waiting. You always knew and you always came looking. You were something solid to ground me in a world that constantly shifts. _

_ But no more. You shifted, too, and nothing is solid now. _

_ Should I have been surprised? When the world looks at me they see mutability. Transience. A mercurial compulsion to change. In you they see constancy. Stone. Something immovable. It was these perceptions which damned us in the end. For what is my inconstancy but the culmination of a thousand years worth of wanting and learning and being? What is your intransigence but a hundred years worth of anger and fear and resentment? If your nature is that of a stone, then surely mine is that of that willow, able to breathe and bend and flex where you can only break. And when the stone has cracked and worn away, as stones are wont to do, what then?_

_ They say that you are the constant one. _

_ Tell me, how can that be true when I'm the one still here?_

_ Still walking. Still waiting. Still hoping against hope that I might find you, walking these same roads, looking for me. _

_ But it's late. Too late. The marks of time have wrought their ruins across this tired human body. And even if you were to show up, even if you were to stand before me and apologize for your absence, I'm not certain that it would matter. I look down at the pale skin of my weathered, wrinkled hands and sigh. I could find another body, if I chose. My soul is strong enough now to shape even a demon form anew. But I don't think that I will. I have cheated death my fair share of times, after all._

_ And again, I find myself wondering what you would say. Would you call me a coward? Would you decry my casual acceptance of death as nothing more than spineless suicide? I assure you, my friend, they are not the same thing. This body is nearly spent. In truth, the strength of my energy has lent it vitality far beyond its human limitations. Its time has come, and I have no excuse to break the natural order again. Scoff now, if you like, but you will find one day that when you live as long as I have, the feeling of belonging is a necessary motivation. _

_ I belong to nothing and to no-one. _

_ When this message reaches you, will you wonder if you could have changed that?_

_ Assuming, of course, that it does reach you. I'm broadcasting on every psychic channel I've ever touched. One of them is bound to lead to you. If I'm strong enough, that is. Telepathy has never been a specialty of mine. I can only hope that, wherever you are, you hear this. _

_ Even now, the idea of leaving without saying good-bye is painful. This is the best that I can do. Part of me wonders how you will react. Will you mourn the loss of a comrade? A friend? Or will you be disgusted with me, giving up the ghost so easily?The youko in me knows that disgust is much more likely, but the humanized demon composing this message hopes for some fondness to linger in your memory. Some warmth to give meaning to the ache I've felt so long. _

_ But I'm rambling, and the night is fading. I'd like to finish this before the morning comes. Surely the day will only mock these musings borne of night. _

_ And besides, didn't you once complain that I spoke too much?_

_ All of this to tell you things that, I'm sure, you already knew. Our lives are a series of choices, Hiei, and I don't regret a single one of mine. Not even the one that kept me here waiting for you. Whatever it is that you feel upon hearing this, know that I bear you no ill will. If at times I seem bitter, it is because my words come barbed with selfishness and pain. Know that I've loved every part of you no matter what I claim to hate._

_ Ah! Yes, here are the tears that I couldn't find before. Little trails of moisture, dried by the wind of the highway almost as soon as they have the chance to fall. Combined with this good-bye, they are more of a release than I could have asked for. _

_ Wherever you go, Hiei, know that you have always gone with the constant love of an inconstant fox at your back, wishing with equal parts of himself that you be happy, and that you return to him. _

_ But I know now that choosing one meant giving up the other. _

_ You could never have been happy with me._

_ And so tonight is the last night. For walking, for remembering, for all of this._

_ There can be no more waiting. _

_ The sky above me is dense with the blackness of predawn. The cars on the highway are still a pulsing hum at my side. And even though this is the last night, I can still feel the ache in my chest throbbing in time to that sound. I wonder, will you feel echoes, steady and deep as the beating of a heart, or will they be lost and rendered as meaningless as everything else by the distance between our worlds? _

_ The pavement is glistening despite the darkness. The rain I scented earlier has started and tendrils of fog are rising, twining lovingly around my ankles in a comforting caress. _

_ It is time to end this. _

_ After all, I've said everything that there is to say._

"Goodbye, Hiei."

_And now there's nothing left to do but walk back the way I came. _


End file.
